I want to live inside the grass, to feel what it is to curve, just so, in the wind. I want to be inside its thin blades, one side sun-warmed, the other cool, with the long tall stems rising above me with all their light seeds.
I want to know the joy of their dance, of their strength, of their suppleness, even when their prime has passed and their green is gone and they are dry yet curving in the wind and hearing the song of the seeds dancing in the air above them like a thousand birds.
And I want to be the thousand birds, waiting to fly, waiting for just the perfect moment, just the perfect breeze, and in the meantime singing to the blades below because they curve so gracefully in the sun.
Yes, yes. On this late November day, as I stand at the edge of the wetlands listening to the wind, I want nothing more than to be the grass curving in afternoon sun.
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